Fabrizio De André, the revered Italian singer/songwriter, created a deep and enduring body of work over the course of his career from the 1960s through the 1990s. With these translations I have tried to render his words into an English that reads naturally without straying too far from the Italian. The translations decipher De André's lyrics without trying to preserve rhyme schemes or to make the resulting English lyric work with the melody of the song.

"Il fannulone" was the A-side of De André's third single on Karim, released in 1963. It was co-written with Paolo Villaggio, a childhood friend. There are several strains in this early song that will surface regularly in later songs: going against the grain of mainstream society, a sense of irony towards so-called respectable folk ("la gente per bene"), and an irreverent and playful attitude. The song no doubt sprang from the anti-conformist lifestyles of the two young authors. Riccardo Venturi called this song "deliciously revolutionary and subversive" and described it as a "hymn to doing nothing," where to do nothing is to live life truly, not allowing a dehumanized corporate complex to take it away from you.

Genoa at night - "The moon will be silver in colorover the backs of the cats in love."

"With no pretense of wanting to overdo it,
I sleep fourteen hours a day.
Also for this reason, in my district
I enjoy the reputation of a slouch.
But don't scorn the good people
if I don’t manage to do anything in life."

You roam the streets almost all night long,
dreaming a thousand tales of glory and revenge.
You recount your stories to a few men now tired,
who laugh, fixing you with blank, empty stares.
You play an annoying role for people,
making of life an amusing comedy.

"I even tried to work,
with all my might I tried hard,
but the only result of the experiment
was a tragic increase in hunger.
Respectable people aren’t offended
if I’m not well-suited for carrying the chains."

They gave you work in a big restaurant
washing the scraps of the elegant people.
But you said, "The sky is my only good fortune
and dishwater doesn't reflect the moon."
You returned to sing stories along nighttime streets,
defying the good humor of your worn-out shoes.

"I'm not, then, that malicious cur
without morals, tramp and vagabond
who contents himself with a pierced bone
discarded with affectionate scorn.
For the slouch, the heart knows how to beat,
the stray dog has found its love."

You thought of marriage as a turn at a dance,
you loved your woman like a day on vacation.
You took your house as a refuge for your sluggishness,
as a rack on which to hang your jacket,
and your sweet spouse consoled her sadness
searching among people for
anyone that might offer her tenderness.

She went away without making a sound,
perhaps singing a story of love.
She recounted it for a world tired by then,
one that walked inattentive at her side.
She'll return on a summer night,
they will applaud her, the enchanted stars.

From up high the streetlamps will illuminate
the strange dance of two slouches.
The moon will be silver in color
over the backs of the cats in love.